I thought Derek was joking when he suggested a 30-day “reset.” Living apart to fall in love again? But he insisted—daily calls, just space, not a breakup. I agreed, even found a place nearby. He kissed me goodbye like I was off on vacation, not exiting our five-year marriage.

Days passed—quiet, awkward conversations. He reassured me: “This will make us stronger.” I held onto that.

Then came the call. Rain poured. Our neighbor Mary—kind, bird-watching Mary—said a blonde woman was in my bedroom, going through drawers. I raced over.

I found her upstairs, holding my scarf. “I thought you left,” she said. Derek stepped out in a towel. “It just happened,” he claimed. I didn’t scream. I left.

Three weeks later, packing the rest of my things, I found a ring in a box—a huge heart-shaped diamond with a note: “We both needed a second chance. Love, Derek.” Dated before our “reset.”

He planned it. Lied. Played the good guy while cheating with an intern.

Six months later, divorce finalized, settlement in my favor, Derek lost his job.

I moved cities, started my dream studio, met someone real.

Turns out, I didn’t lose love. I was set free.